Kind of a dry spell for Steven. I run a reading series now. I'm a big man with big plans.
Here's my poem:
My lungs are empty for a brief moment.
Now I'm restless, bored with the tragedy of crawling snakes.
Lungs are pitiful bags, unable to beg my cigarettes for relief.
I'm going to announce myself as mayor when we get there.
Are churches without roofs closer to God?
Going up to the clouds are many prayers, many tiny puffs of smoke.
Churches get built near the road, for easy access and escape.
Up in the clouds, maybe you sleep with a magazine on your lap.
Get this woman more coffee, stewardess. She is special to me.
In this car, we have begun collecting regional candy wrappers.
This town will be my line in the dirt for decent people.
This mayor will shine through the night like a lighthouse.
We can't even imagine right now the whiteness of his house.
Entire families are charged with keeping it clean and bright.
Can't find any magazine worth having at the service station.
Families drive home from Sunday service, loosening their clothes.
Find me a mayor who's lived with the nonsense that I have.
Drive backwards to New York; remind me why we're doing this.
Me, I'll just crush my cigarette on my shoe and make that face.
Backwards little country towns are preserved in time like fancy bones.
I'll push the button on the car radio, but I don't really want it off.
Little do we know the best song is coming up.
Push me against the window; wait for my face to get cold.
Do these small favors and you are always welcome in my town.
Candy from America is so innocent and so horribly named.
Cow's Ears and Super Mud Pops litter our floorboards.
From this window, trees wave like well-wishers.
Ears poised for anything, we have been twisting the dial.
This trip has caused us to drink and sleep more.
Poised for revelation, we've spent very little time outside of this car.